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Archive for the ‘Game’ Category

I’m hearing this off-tune braggadocio a lot lately from the usual leper colony of game haters: “I just walk up and make small talk like a normal human being, and get girls! Why do you game dorks make such a big deal out of it?”

Lemme clue you in about what’s going on behind the scenes here. At least a few of these “just be yourself” shoot-from-the-unhip variants are doing what they say — picking up girls and whisking them to the altar on nothing but small talk — but what they don’t tell you is the quality of girls they small talk into lustful abandon. Hint: They ain’t HBhubbahubbas.

Yeah, if you’ve got your shit together, and compose yourself that way, you can conceivably chit chat a 5 into a deep love trance. For example, sometimes to shake the rust off I’ll hit on plainer girls equipping myself with only an arsenal of small talk. Once, I saw a incipiently chubby, swipply girl in a t-shirt advertising some tropical locale she had visited. She was no great looker, easy on one eye, but respectable enough for practice, so I veered in with my game put on hold. I said “Hey your shirt. I’ve been there. Great place. Did you like it?”

No qualification, no push pull, no teasing, no escalating kino, no fission grade smirk, nothing except average guy fluff talk and (by then internalized) non-obsequious body language. Ten minutes later, she was smiling like a drunk porpoise. When it ended, no numbers exchanged, she looked almost annoyed, as if silently wondering why did I waste her time if I wasn’t going to ask her out.

Don’t misconstrue. Small talk is great, and it, like other tools of applied charisma, is a skill that can be honed and targeted to nuke vagina from orbit. Shit, half the men who fail at love haven’t even gotten to the step where actual words are coming out of their mouths around women.

But if you’re gonna play in the big leagues and throw your pitch at bona fide babes, you’ll need more to close the deal than a polite acknowledgement of her choice in breast coverings. (In fact, you’d do better to tell a hottie exactly that: “Hey, I like your choice in breast covering.” It’ll shock her into attraction.) You’ll need the knuckleball, sinker, cutter, and a little bit of unpredictable english if you want to stand out from the mob of scrubs.

*LSMV = low sexual market value

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Ah, cute prole girls. I love em to death. It’s my studied opinion that red state prole chicks who don’t bloat up (a vanishing set, granted) are, on the whole, more feminine than their blue city counterparts.

Here’s the trick, should you find yourself deep in bucolic red territory: Deck yourself out in a piece of clothing or an accessory with insignia that clearly identifies some media, fashion, or arty conglomerate. (Big IT companies don’t work as well for this trick, because no matter how exclusive Club GOOG, you will still be looked upon as a nerd. You may as well have a scarlet N on your forehead.)

Curiosity will overwhelm her good sense. She’ll ask (she will) for details. You’re in to sin.

Cute prole girls are salt of the earth, but they love the fantasy of the blue city alpha male with connections and a social calender bursting with fruit flavor. Dat “expert from afar” feel. Wearing something that signals you work for one of those dream companies, true or not, is a honey cock trap for inexperienced naifs. If the giddy sociopath is strong in you, feel free to concoct an elaborate, opulent lifestyle dedicated to your glowing self-conception.

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Your Place Or Hers?

I’ve read all the pickup theories concerning this burning question. On paper, each side makes reasonable arguments. One that sticks out is the claim that women feel more comfy in their own places, and their comfort will translate into easier sex.

Theories abound, but my experience has already given me the answer to the question ‘my place or hers?’. It’s an If THEN ELSE *beep boop* computation.

1. If your place is much farther away than her place, go to hers. Favorable logistics wins every time. Too much delay getting her from the date venue to a bedroom means more time for her tingle anticipation to dissipate.

2. If the above condition is not met, by default take her to your place. As a percentage of total number of venue-to-home bounces, you will close the deal more often at your place than at hers. This is what I’ve found to be true. Taking a girl back to your castle instills a power dynamic that works to your favor. She will “feel led”, and that feeling, especially when coupled with a stir of anxiety, arouses her. Plus, a woman who knows subconsciously that she can kick you out of her place on a whim is a woman who has too much psychological leverage to ever fully submit in that most pleasurable way to your indomitable presence.

EXCEPTION TO ABOVE RULE: You’re slinking around for supplementary pussy. Best then to keep your mistresses in the dark about your permanent abode(s).

 

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A reader passed along a screenshot of a text exchange he had with a girl he was trying to bang. He wanted to show how bratty this girl was behaving, tossing shit test after shit test his way, and wondered how he could eventually subdue her, wrest the brat from its chokehold on her id, and get her softly purring like a kitten.

Nick starts weakly. If you know the girl is a nuclear bitch, you’ve gotta make your first swing count. That pimp hand has to make an appearance early to set the tone of the conversation. Nick began like a normal human being, and quickly found out his politeness was ineffective. All his nod to courtesy did was incite Jessica to amazing feats of brattitude.

Right away she calls him Olga. For this reason, I call the style of game designed to tame tankgrrls, Olga Game.

Nick’s reply comes four hours later (he makes her wait as punishment for the ‘tude). He lifts a line straight from CH: “lol bratty mcbrattster”. So far so good.

She plays ball. Another five hours later, she replies “don’t question it hahaha” This chick has squared off with alphas before. I bet she has a clit piercing.

Nick answers two hours later, and amps the asshole a couple of degrees. He pulls out another classic CH line, “littlespoon doesn’t make the rules”. Too little, too late? We’ll see.

Jessica strikes back hard. She thinks she’s being funny, but her last text is tinged with cunty spite. Now I’m convinced that not only does she have a clit piercing, she has taken it up the ass.

I lost the original source for this reader submission, so I don’t know what happened next, or if there was an informative follow-up to this shiv-shaped badinage. All I can tell Nick is that he’s dealing with a hellion, which is bad and good. Bad, because she’ll eat you alive if you show a flicker of beta weakness. Good because if you get through her defenses with your pride intact, she will be the dirtiest slut in bed for you.

Olga Game is essentially script flipping. Girls like Jessica will expect you to continue your hard teasing banter, (and they’ll continue returning equally caustic parries); therefore, the way to win this battle… is to refuse to fight it. Take her mental hamster script and rewrite it. When she expects another emotionally arid jest, respond instead with a faux pose of sincerity, laced with a judgmental pique aimed at her inability to connect like a normal healthy woman.

Jessica Rabid: “no no I think you need to go put on a nice dress blah blah…”

Nick the Iron Dick: “sure, i’ll get on that as soon as you drop the act and be real”

This is thermonuclear script-flipping intended for a very specific audience and context. Gauge wisely. If a girl is a broken record with her endless bitch barrages of return fire, that’s the moment to think about deploying Olga Game. It’s shocking, and for the girl who is used to being shocked by assholes of varying degrees of state control, the “be real” plot change to the stale book of her dating life could be the shock that finally tames her.

Sometimes these sassy chicks get trapped by their own “I’m a tough broad” expectations, and lose the capacity to be emotionally vulnerable around men. Their hearts are as scarred as their vaginas. If you meet one of these girls, think about using that pair of high hearts you have up your sleeve. Make a feint toward vulnerability, however expertly faked, and the hardened trollop may soften up just enough for your penetrating id busters.

Just don’t be stupid about it. Don’t profess your attraction like some warrior poet. A little step back can mean a big leap forward. If she takes the Olga Game bait and backs off a little, you’ve got a chance with her. Now you’re no longer some “fun guy” she feels free to fuck around with because you’re “just another player like all the rest.” Proceed in this manner, extracting genuine emotions, but return to the previous script at inopportune times, like when there’s a sense that the conversation is veering close to sap. Unpredictability will slowly but inevitably switch the chaser-chasee roles into an alignment more favorable for the man’s romantic goals.

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Turning Starcucks Into Starfucks

Troll Starbucks and get laid. What’s not to like?

Commenter grit turns lemonade into hard 10 lemonade,

Take your [“Race Together”] cup from the hopefully cute barista, return a minute later.
Ask:
“Are you hitting on me?”

She will be perplexed and wonder why.

“Apparently we are going to a 5k together.”

She laughs to break tension. And has to explain what it means, submissively. Ignore anything she says.

Comment how she looks like a runner. As opposed to those people at starbucks who ask for half and half “if you know what i mean”

Notice the time and say “you got that pen handy? How about adding something else to my cup.” Hand back and she asks what to add. “Your number.”

Closed

Tight game, grit. Sticking it to the SJW manlet and stealing the women he wishes he had. Conan, that’s what is good in life.

 

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What men are subconsciously thinking when they litter their texts and chats to women with smilies:

this will show her how happy and upbeat i am! i’m so enthused to be talking to her. so enthused! she will like me more when she sees how enthused i am that an electronic blip on a screen is making me horny big time.

What women are subconsciously thinking when they receive texts and chats littered with smilies from men:

ugh gross. that’s his fourth smiley. why is he trying so hard? he must not get laid much. if no other women want him, why would i want him? next.

CH once admonished men against the self-defeating compulsion to send women tons of smilies in an effort to build a romantic connection.

1. Too many smilies and question marks. A good rule of thumb when texting or emailing a girl is simply to refrain from using emoticons or question marks at all. Following this rule will help rewire your brain into mimicking the brain of an alpha.

Some emojis are useful as a pickup tool. But smilies — lots of ingratiating smilies — are the kiss-off of death to any budding ASCII courtship. Women are contemptuous of ingratiating betas, and a surfeit of smilies is a leading indicator of an appeasing man with the character of a chew toy. The smilies are weak.

Now, as it so happens, ♂SCIENCE♂ affirms this CH dictum.

It turns out that men who insert this little guy “:)” in their dating profiles or messages don’t get a good response from the ladies (on a personal note, I’ve heard some women say that the only thing they look forward to less than a smiley or, God forbid, winky face is an unsolicited picture of a dude’s junk… but that’s another story).

After studying a sample of 4,000 members, Zoosk found that men with a “:)” in their profile get 6% less incoming messages and 12% fewer responses to outgoing messages. Using a “:)” in an actual message decreased response rates by a whopping 66%.

You can get your hard truths later, after the party’s over, by waiting for social science studies to percolate through the genderqueersphere, or you can get them now, before the plebes have roused from slumber, as an honored guest of Le Chateau.

Men, on the other hand, love a good emoticon. So much so that women with a “:)” in their profile get 60% more messages.

To a man’s brain, an emotionally open woman is a contender to be a sexually open woman.

But wait!

Zoosk found that using the slightly longer “:-)” emoticon in a message actually increases responses by 13%.

I bet the men using the full “:-)” used it less frequently than the men sending the desperate “:)” configuration used their smiley choice. “:)” lends itself to mass beta spamming.

Ya know, forget all this smiley crap. Just stick with the tried-and-true, matchmaking basics.

“8==========D”

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The enduring romance of ’80s icons –  Cars rockstar Ric Ocasek and supermodel Paulina Porizkova — is one of history’s greatest lessons in the power of fame and game to help a man overcome his ugly looks and snag a real beauty.

Reader JCclimber provides background,

following the links back to 2011, I read again your post on Paulina Porizkova being the elusive 10 by voting.

10s do exists, rare though they are. Because of a few freak contrarians wedged in the id gears, there will never be uniform agreement about female 10s among men, but you will find that large majorities of men agree strongly with which women embody physical perfection, or come closest to it.

Bing images of Paulina from her prime. She was a hard softnlovely 10, with a killer body to match her heavenly face. (I believe she was an SI Swimsuit model, ostensibly during a time when SI wasn’t squeezing fat chicks in fatkinis between its pages.) The radiant beauty of 10s is so magnificent that these women can still look bangable 20-30 years after their prime nubility.

As with many others, she was my favorite hot model then, throughout the 80’s. She was in a couple movies. Took me years to track down the foreign magazine where she posed topless. blah blah blah. let me cut to the chase.

Ya want to know how Ric Okasec of the Cars rock band got her? His fame and fortune wasn’t enough to bag THE top supermodel of that time. Nope. He had to overcome that face of his. He needed a little something called “game”.

They met filming the music video “Drive”. The director Timothy Hutton wanted to show the various aspects of a relationship and breakup. To get the scene of her crying, he had Ric and her yelling and cursing and screaming at each other, over and over to get the take correct. Interspersed with the happier scenes.

Years later, after they were married, she still gushes about those few days of filming during interviews. Does this remind you of any particular seduction technique? Anyone? Bueller?

You think a red hot supermodel who showed up for her first major modeling gig at age 14, while wearing a t-shirt that read “Too drunk to fuck” hadn’t encountered some alphas? Some fame and fortune? You think she emotionally bonded to any of those alphas?

Ric should send a thank you card every year to Timothy Hutton.

Very interesting backstory, JC. Push-pull, hot-cold, asshole-niceguy, ftw. Ric didn’t just snag Paulina; he owned her. And every woman secretly dreams of falling in love with a man psychologically strong enough to own her.

That’s the beauty of… game! Even when a man’s display of game is artificially stimulated by a third party it still exerts an arousing influence on a woman’s high and low love lobes. Think of game as the equivalent of good lighting, makeup, and a skin-tight cocktail dress. A woman has to work hard to get all those beauty-enhancing cues working for her, but when she does (and given she exceeds a natural cuteness threshold), men respond like dogs to the sound of a clattering dinner bowl.

Likewise, a man who practices the crimson arts to enhance his sexiness will trigger autonomic lust in the women blessed with his company. If he has concomitant fame, emotional range, and game-less competition that pales in contrast, the most beautiful women in the world will do more than give their sex… they’ll give their hearts, a much more precious commodity women guard like Fort Knockers.

A comment by PA pulled from that archived post linked by JC:

Ocasek has a total of six sons, two from each of his three marriages.

Even more proof that he’s alpha. When the girl loves you, her body chemistry favors XY sperm because she want to have a child that is a replica of her man.

But when she’s ‘meh’ about you, the chemistry is biased toward XX sperm, just so she can get a girl, or a copy of herself.

I know the ¡SCIENCE! for my supposition about to follow is lacking, but I’ll assert it anyway. It’s been my observation that more masculine looking or acting fathers have more sons. (And vice versa. The most beautiful girl I loved growing up had a father who was a Betamax Prime.) Maybe the reason is super sperm. Maybe it’s what PA says. Whatever it is, there’s something to the idea that women’s congenital solipsism flourishes alongside the feeble tutelage of beta males and happily retreats under the psychological leadership of alpha males. And that this id-shaped process may even extend down deep, beneath subconsciousness, to the chromosomal level.

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